Prey
by Pavor
Summary: In the world of Nosgoth nobility, who knows who's the hunter? Set during BO2.
1. Intimation

Disclaimer: I own nothing but any and all original characters herein, all else belongs to its respective owners.

Feel free to leave comments and critiques.

----

**Chapter 1: **

**Intimation**

"Oh, what now?"

The exasperated and rather irritated voice belonged to a man half hidden behind the carriage's heavy curtain, pulled back into the corner to give its occupants a better view of the outside. Despite the late evening, the moon was almost full and offered enough illumination to see out ahead on the road, to say nothing of the torches the men carried. There was some commotion about with the coachman and outriders, the mercenary Captain in discussion with a tall stranger.

"Are we taking on another passenger, my Count?"

He glanced back over his shoulder quickly and then back again.

"It would appear so."

The woman that asked the question leaned over him to get a better view through the small window, earning an annoyed look. Across from them, another woman nervously readjusted the folds of her burgundy outskirt, appearing to hesitate between leaning out the window to see for herself and remain seated. A few more tense minutes passed before the Count spoke again, letting go of the curtain apathetically and leaning back.

"Here he comes."

He shifted with a soft sigh and the woman dropped back in the seat next to him, quickly smoothing down her azure dress, the lack of proper lighting making it appear much duller and blending shadows together. The door opened with a waft of freshly cool air and carriage lanterns spilled warm light into the cabin, mixing with moonlight to create a sort of penumbral atmosphere.

All eyes turned to the shadowed figure in the entrance and the woman quickly appraised the stranger inquisitively.

Long black hair framed an angular face, the kind of sculpted appearance one could rarely find outside of those of noble birth and prosperous upbringing. There was a hint of some sort of armour under the heavy robes, the insignia unfamiliar to her. A noble most assuredly, she smiled inwardly.

The man paused for a moment on the carriage steps, keen eyes surveying the interior.

"It would appear that we are travelling in the same direction."

"Yes," Count eyed him distrustfully. "But I doubt our destination is the same."

The man ignored the barb, taking another moment to run his gaze over the other two occupants and then hoisted himself into the booth. After some awkward maneuvering to accommodate his large frame, he settled into the soft bench next to the younger of the two women. For a few minutes the occupants studied each other in mute silence, that is to say; the trio studied the newcomer with varying degrees of curiosity and exchanged meaningful glances. Tangible strain burdened the air, impregnating the silence with contracted tension.

Finally, the woman sitting across from him stirred antsily, to slightly lean forward. In the dim light of the carriage her dilated brown irises melted with pupils to make her eyes appear completely black.

"Shall we introduce ourselves?" she glanced around the carriage booth excitedly, eliciting a bored frown from the Count.

When no one took her cue, she gladly took it upon herself to acquaint everyone.

"I am Dulcinea of Willendorf, and this is my dear sister Pili," she indicated the timid girl on the man's right.

"_Pilar_," Pilar amended duskily, obviously embarrassed by the diminutive.

Dulcinea paid little attention to her, other than tutting chidingly in a glib fashion.

"I will let the good Count here introduce himself."

She looked at the man on her left proddingly. The Count's face was almost unnaturally pale with thick layer of face powder, some of his natural dark hair visible under a carelessly worn powdered wig.

"Vollmayer," he offered off-handedly.

Dulcinea nodded approvingly with a small smile, then turned to the stranger.

"And your name, kind sir?" she inquired coquettishly.

The man turned a heavy gaze on her, and for a briefest moment it seemed like something unapologetically visceral flashed across his features. She blinked and it was gone, only the flickers of moonlight through the trees casting pale shadows.

"William," he said simply, in a tone aristocratically crisp and tinged with that certain blasé air.

Definitely a nobleman.

The fact that he was unwilling to give his full title indicated either someone with monetary problems or a far shadier sort. But the fact that he was here, with them, spoke he certainly was no peasant or simply a wealthy merchant. Dulcinea looked at the Count meaningfully, but he was too engrossed in scoffing at her sister's cleavage. With a dramatic sigh she folded her gloved hands on her lap, sending a small smile William's way.

The man let his eyes slid from her to the Count, some faint amusement trembling in his voice.

"Shall I presume that you are...together?"

"The good Count here is our patron," she stated matter-of-factly, glancing quickly at her sister.

Pilar shifted uneasily with soft rustling of crepe cloth, while William made a small sound, something between indifference and polite interest.

"I see," he said simply.

Dulcinea's voice lost some of its eager quality as she explained their situation.

"We had to run from our estate, the Sarafan have deemed a village on the Count's land infested by vampires and had decreed the whole area for purging. Dreadful, simply dreadful."

"Things aren't as simple as that, Dulcinea," Count interjected in clear annoyance at having his private matters debated in such fashion with strangers. "Best not to speak of it until the Sarafan court in Meridian decides a judgement."

"Yes," Dulcinea said, abashed somewhat.

The carriage rattled and shook on the uneven road, black trunks of trees passing by outside in the fresh evening. In the distance, threatening stormclouds gathered, erratic deep rumbles always carrying the promise of heavy rain on the wind.

---

Heavy boots marched in militaristic cadence over the worn cobblestones, scarce people that were out at this time of day giving the small group a wide birdth. Fear, uncertainty, curiosity were all reflected in the eyes of those who watched, staring in secrecy from their high windows, or dark street corners. The group of Sarafan guards, as ominous and sinister looking as they come, rounded a corner into the narrow alleyway which lead to apartment housings in the part of Meridian known as the Smuggler's Den. They were headed by a nobleman of some sort, flanked by a pair of towering knights. His deep red warcoat swayed in the faint evening breeze, his face a mask of stone as he marched forward determinedly.

They walked in complete silence, confidence oozing from them, the kind of certainty that could only come from serving an absolute power. Stopping at an apartment building door, the nobleman re-adjusted his black gloves, nodding toward the door meaningfully. Two burly guards broke the door down with a loud crunch, the rest of the Sarafan pouring in like wasps. Their leader waited a moment or so, already first screams of startled panic and crashing sounds could be heard from inside, then casually walked in after them.

The building's foyer was seedy-looking and poorly lit, nothing of a hindrance to Faustus as he ascended the creaking wooden stairs with all the reserve of a foppish nobleman. Sarafan guards bristled around him, breaking down apartment doors and dragging out frightened tenants into the hall, thrashing the apartments in the process of violent search. Faustus walked past the commotion to a specific door at the end of the first floor hallway; it was already broken in, sounds of struggling coming from within along with a flickering glow of candlelight.

Inside, three Sarafan were ransacking the place, with two knights in heavy armour kicking a man in his nightshirt on the floor, an older man holding back what must have been his daughter. She cried out with a mixture of anger and despair, her father glaring murderously at the Sarafan. Faustus surveyed the scene from the doorway for a moment, one languid hand resting on hip. The Sarafan paused in their 'searching of the premises' to send expectant glances his way. With lying complacency Faustus pushed himself off the doorframe with his shoulder.

"Guard the door," he said simply, nodding toward the door behind him.

The guards acknowledged his command silently, hoisting up the unmoving man they were kicking a moment ago, and effortlessly dragged his limp form out of the apartment. The girl gave a desperate cry as her teary eyes followed them, her father finally loosening his grip on her, his gaze no less distant and resigned. He stared after them with a set jaw, his face locked in a grimace of quiet hatred.

Faustus regarded them stoically, the palpable extent of their misery twisting the corners of his lips upwards, every drop of their emotion-enriched blood calling to him through their frail bodies. Slowly, he made a couple of nonchalant steps around the apartment, still saying nothing. The false green of his roving eyes concealed the aureate horror beneath, more than anyone could imagine. As he poked at torn and scrunched up pile of papers with a gloved hand, he felt the girl's presence approach.

"We did not do anything, why are you treating us like we're common criminals?" the young woman asked pleadingly, her voice shivering with unshed tears.

Faustus directed a cold gaze down at her, pulling his hand up in a slow and deliberate manner to backhand her. The girl's eyes widened even before his fist struck her, sending her tumbling to the floor with a muffled cry of pain.

"No!" her father roared, throwing himself at Faustus in sudden rage.

Before his fist could connect with the vampire, Faustus spinned explosively, striking his heel into the man's face like a sledgehammer. With an abrupt crack and a sharp change of direction, he was sent backwards into the wall, collapsing to the floor like an empty sack.

"Silence, bitch," Faustus drawled quietly, derisively, as he glanced at the sobbing girl.

She was curled up on the floor, covering her ears with her hands tightly as if trying to block out the cries and sounds of Sarafan ravaging the building. As he approached he noticed she was bleeding from a broken lip and her nose was swollen with trickling blood.

Faustus stood over her for a moment to appraise her critically, taking in the alluring scent of fresh blood, then leaned down to pull her to her feet with surprising gentleness. She still shook with panicked sobs, her eyes speaking of nothing but fear and tension as she recoiled back from his touch. He regrabbed her more firmly, like a stern parent, but with none the affection and all the cold loathing, pulling her hands away from her ears forcefully. Her feverish eyes spotted her father then, crumpled in a corner against the wall with blood covering his lifeless face, which was now nothing more than a gaping mess of bloody tissue and ruined bone. She gasped and whimpered, closing her eyes and shaking her head furiosuly.

"Open your eyes, girl," he delivered a mild slap, just enough to snap her out of her blind panic. "Stop that. Open your eyes."

The girl stopped sobbing, a sort of mad numbness in her tempestous eyes as she stared back at him, her chest heaving erratically. Faustus let his steel gaze linger on her own momentarily, before letting go of her wrists. Her hands fell to her side lifelessly.

"We know your family is involved with black market and illegal smuggling. This will not be tolerated," his eyes darted to the crumpled body nearby, and the girl's gaze followed, with a quick sob. "And_ I_ know this is not really your family."

Last words were spoken harshly, in a colder tone as he grabbed her arm again in a threatening manner, bringing his leer closer. She stared up at him in growing horror, her eyes fixed widely on some random point over his shoulder; his breath smelled like mortuary. Abruptly he whirled his head around, barking for the guards waiting in the doorway.

The girl started crying again as they dragged her out and down the stairs, Faustus' lingering stare on her until she was taken out of sight. Being left alone in the thrashed apartment, he turned to look around slowly, his eyes settling on the body of the girl's father finally. His attention lingered there for a moment, as if only for being somewhere while some hidden thoughts coursed his mind.

Some vague sounds of shuffling and hushed whispers drifted in from the hallway. Frowning and snapping from his momentary transfixion, Faustus walked over in quick steps to crouch down next to the body. He looked it over pensively, then slowly reached out one hand under the limp head, fingers tightening casually around the neck. With a quick snap he cracked the spine and thus ensured death, even if it enticed no reaction from the already dead man.

Faustus cocked his head as he listened in a brief moment of placidity, the noises from the adjacent apartments subsided to soft sounds of crying and angry, half-muttered curses as the survivors sifted through the debris.

With a deep breath he straightened again, idle stare falling over the broken furniture as he brought the back of a gloved hand to his lips, smelling, tasting the stain of crimson on black velvet. Her blood, fresh and vibrant with youth. He savoured the small amount of this flavour on the tip of his tongue, smiling as he imagined how a full rush of this invigorating heat would feel streaming down his throat.

He gave a soft chuckle despite himself as he slowly walked out of the apartment, his boots echoing hollowly on the wooden floorboards.


	2. Character

**Chapter 2:**

**Character**

"Interesting," Count rested the knuckle of his forefinger against his lips pensively. "It's warm. Far too warm for this time of year." 

Dulcinea shifted in her seat, leaning toward her window absently.

"Seasons are stranger every year," she murmured as her eyes tried to adjust to the glum stillness outside.

Rainclouds now obscured any stars and moon completely, and made the countryside almost pitch black. Only the carriage and its small entourage gave off the collective flickering glow of several torches and lanterns. Beyond the small luminous radius there was darkness, foreign and impenetrable.

"The land is changing," William supplied succinctly.

Shadows covered his eyes where he leaned back into the seat, leaving only a diagonal slice of light to illuminate his lower face. Dulcinea glanced at him with an agreeing sound.

"It is indeed."

Pilar glanced at William uncertainly, then spoke up for the first time, her tones low and subdued.

"They say it has been so ever since the fall of the Pillars-"

"You read too much history books, girl," Count interrupted with distracted annoyance. "And ascribe too much meaning where there is none."

She offered a defiant look, but said nothing more.

"The land is _always_ changing," he continued curtly. "I am more concerned with political climate than the natural one. That one is far more dangerous."

"And you would know much of such dangers?" William inquired, in a way that made it unclear whether he was being sincere or venomous.

Count scoffed at him doubtfully, almost in surprise.

"Look at where we are, look at where we are going. Look around you, sir, and tell me it isn't so."

William leaned forward infinitesimally, his face never fully emerging from the shadows.

"It_ is_ so, it has always been so. This rot has been present for many years, it is merely its stench that waxes and wanes with time. Things have changed – but not truly."

Vollmayer nodded sagely.

"In this I agree with you," he readjusted his black necktie idly, ruffled silk under ringed fingers. "The human nature, the order never changes."

William angled his head at him in some emotion, perhaps amusement.

"The natural order?"

Count smiled thinly.

"Naturally."

Dulcinea and Pilar exchanged a quick, meaningful look.

The quartet fell into a sort of cumbersome quiet again, allowing the muffled sounds of horseshoes and wheels on dirt road to smoothly wash over the cabin. Count settled back in his seat comfortably, resting his eyes on the girl sitting opposite from him. Pilar was silent, her eyes darting to the half-curtained windows erratically. Dulcinea studied William through heavy eyelids, being sure to project aloofness. After a long while, she stirred and spoke, directing an anxious look at the Count.

"We will be stopping at an inn for the night?"

Count nodded in off-handed agreement.

"It's not very wise to travel by night like this. Indeed, it is unsafe to travel this far north-west these days. Bandits attack caravans regularly, to say nothing of worse things."

Dulcinea scoffed delicately, half-turning to him.

"Surely you do not believe these silly stories of vampires, Count?"

Vollmayer pulled his coat tighter about him in the chill.

"One would be a fool not to. These horrific creatures have caused far too much suffering to be dismissed so easily."

"You consider them beasts then?" William inquired, rather unpleasantly.

Count shot him a strange look.

"And you do not, sir? They _are_ beasts, vile and twisted beings of the night preying on the hapless travelers."

William made an indelicate sound.

"You will find, good sir, that the_ things_ preying on travelers are far more manifold than you think, and that you are not as safe amongst your own kind as you would like to believe."

Count was taken aback by the forthright, even rude manner of this stranger who refused to identify himself properly, skewering him with a disapproving scowl.

"You credit me with more naivete than I deserve. I am well aware of the dangers of the human race, and its depravity, but that does not in any way diminish _other_ dangers lurking all around us."

"I heard there were bands of gypsies roaming these parts," Dulcinea interjected, hoping to steer conversation elsewhere. "I do hope we don't come across any of them. They can be entertaining at times, but those people have no _class_."

Count rolled his eyes at her cautious tone.

"Gypsies should be the least of your worries. I hear peasants are revolting in the east again. Nothing the Sarafan can't suppress I'm sure. Still...unpleasantness. I've heard from reliable sources that Sarafan Order has sent more soldiers to the settlements around the Lake of Lost Souls, to aid the northern Dukes."

His tone grew warmer as he spoke, his eyes darting sideways in juicy speculation.

"Surely not?" Dulcinea said with fake interest.

"Oh yes," he said pointedly and nodded along dramatically. "There have been a few skirmishes between locals around Uschtenheim, and I hear several noble families of Coorhagen have hired mercenaries to harass the travelers throughout major southern roads, in order to spite the Sarafan."

"Mercenaries?" William repeated, with a mixture of casual interest and distaste.

Count leaned forward conspiratorially, glad to finally have an attentive, if not particularly intrigued, audience.

"Yes. After all, it would not do to have their own bannermen associated with such petty brigandry."

"It's still brigandry," Pilar said abruptly, then immediately looked down as everyone's attention shifted to her momentarily.

"It is a lot more than just brigandry," Count said to her, smiling slyly. "It is a statement."

"I have little love for mercenaries," William interjected crisply. "Those who would condemn a man to cold grave for the sake of coin alone."

Count snorted softly, shifting his eyes back to him.

"And what know the dead of such grief? They do not feel the coldness of the grave, nor the harshness of the tomb."

"Yes, it holds sweet oblivion – to some. Others, yet," he glanced out the sidewindow to the darkened forest pointedly. "Are more restless."

All eyes followed his gaze unconsciously, Dulcinea shifting uneasily at the sight of invading darkness. And more so, all hearts constricted at the thought of what it contained.

Dulcinea spared a quick glance toward William; he was now engrossed in contemplation, eyes scanning his dim surroundings in idle cycles, almost like a soldier constantly on guard for potential dangers. She liked his directness, the radiating confidence underlying his words. It was as if he was supremely assured of the truth of every word he spoke, and every word seemed teetering on the verge of contemptuous dismissal.

She decided to entice him into further conversation.

"There has been much talk of Willendorf lately," she said in a hopeful voice. "Did you hear that the Queen has given grants of land to the Diocese of Willendorf within the walls of Willendorf City? Such a thing is without precedent."

"I have heard nothing," William said noncommittally. "Then again, the affairs of Willendorf are of little concern to me, for the time being."

Dulcinea arched her brows at him curiously.

"For the time being? Do you expect them to become of interest to you in the near future?"

"No. I rather expect _my_ affairs to be Willendorf's concern soon."

Dulcinea looked at the Count in mild disbelief, who gave her a pointedly amused look, and then back at William. He spoke clearly, with literary language and educated wit. A nobleman for sure, but of what kind? There was little of usual leisure one would expect from such a man, even if his words were often overbearingly cynical and even downright mocking. A knight errant, perhaps, down on his fortune? Someone hunted for his literary or ideological transgressions? The rather opposing stance that could be felt through his tone at times, coupled with clearly above average intelligence, certainly indicated such.

All this guessing made Dulcinea excited. She loved disclosing other people's mysteries, overcoming challenges of a stubborn man and making him a slave of his own lust. She appraised this William once more in the feeble light. This one definitely looked like a worthy challenge.

"Here we are," Count said drably, peering sidelong through the carriage window.

Up ahead, a tall shape of an inn loomed in the darkness.

---

Archbishop of Meridian was pacing his large cabinet restlessly, occasionally pausing to dab at his sweaty forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. It had been hours since he contacted them through proper channels, and now he was to do what he always did; wait.

The most difficult thing of all.

He attempted to distract himself as he waited, but just couldn't quite focus on anything properly. So he waited, and prayed. Oddly enough, the bright daylight coming through the arched windows and lighting up the room made little difference to his anxiety, and did little to contain his growing apprehension. Any uplifting thoughts that may have been brought on by the wonderful view from the study windows were suppressed by the encroaching unease of expectation. Normally he valued silence, but now it seemed oppressively overwhelming. Myriad of dust particles danced and floated where they were warmly enshined, and he busied himself with observing their silent patterns, letting them lull him into at least a temporary calm. This, in turn, took his thoughts in other directions, and his peace was lost again.

He paced some more.

Some idle concern lit itself in the back of his mind vaguely. He knew that sunlight made little difference-

"It is a wonderful day."

The voice, deep and sultry, appeared so suddenly and unexpectedly it actually made him stumble in startlement, and he had to support himself on the back of a large seat for a moment. Steadying himself, the Archbishop looked around the room sharply. Shapes of furniture and items normally so familiar and trivial now suddenly appeared threatening and alien, the walls too close in for comfort.

And there she was, standing calmly in a corner he could have sworn was empty a moment ago. Whether she just appeared or had been there for a while, only concealed to his sight, was irrelevant. She made herself known to him _now_, and that was all that mattered.

The woman stepped forward, revealing herself fully to him. He knew that vampires could conceal themselves with dark magic to be indistinguishable from mortal humans, but there was no disguise here now. There was no need for it, and no buffer to shield him from the full effect of this vampire's radiating presence. He shifted uneasily, trying to maintain a calm composure.

She was clad entirely in violet, her modest attire leaving _very_ little to imagination.

Her dark hair hung from a tall ponytail down almost to her waist, the sharp curves of black tattoos winding over her cheeks and down her forehead. Sharp, elongated ears and the strange amber tint of her eyes were the most apparent signs of her nature. Sleek muscles outlined her exposed abdomen, a physique lean and fluid like a great cat. There was an air of that unearthly grace in her movement, alien and unnerving, the lethal allure so common to all vampires.

"You startled me," Archbishop said with false relief, resting one ringed hand on his chest meaningfully.

"You have news of Sarafan activities?" it was really more of a statement than a question.

He cleared his throat quickly.

"Yes."

She sat back on the edge of the massive desk in a way woman never should, especially a woman dressed like _that_. The Archbishop scowled in disapproval, but said nothing. Her expectant stare prompted him from stillness.

"I have written an exhaustive report for you..."

He was already moving around his desk, where he nervously unlocked a drawer with a small key he produced from his robes. A scroll of parchment, ribboned and sealed with blue wax. He offered it stiffly.

"It is coded as per usual."

As she took the scroll, he noted the pale delicacy of the fingers of her exposed left hand, felt their touch like silken ice brushing over his hand.

Cruel, and cold. Dead. Whatever affection that ethereal mind was capable of, whatever icy caresses could be coaxed from those long-dead limbs, it was surely too foreign and morbid to be enjoyed by anything living.

Still, one could not help but be taken by such pulchritude.

Archbishop scratched his palm absently; his skin was dry, leathery and wrinkled.

"There has been some shifting of garrisons, but nothing drastic," he supplied hopefully, anything to feed the silence.

She leaned back on her hands and studied him through half closed eyes, a gaze distinctly predatorial. The Archbishop averted his eyes, nervously clearing his throat.

He decided then that nothing so deadly should be so beautiful.

The vampire's eyes followed him as he made a few indecisive steps toward a window, glancing distractedly at the courtyard below. A pair of battle clerics could be seen crossing it in leisurely patrol. He wrung his fingers awkwardly, wondering whether her silence was a foreboding omen or merely lack of anything to say.

"Regarding the matter of Sarafan Keep; were you able to achieve any progress?"

Archbishop turned around, eagerly nodding.

"Yes, I am still working on it. My contacts in the Keep needed to conceal their activities for the time being. Several nobles have been executed for treason, and Sarafan Inquisitors are even turning their eyes toward the clergy. This is all dreadfully unpleasant."

He affected a grave expression to emphasize his words, and found himself oddly captivated by the contours of muscles in her stomach.

The vampire said nothing.

With elegant ease, she pushed herself off the maroon wood to approach. She stopped in a patch of sunlight spilling from a nearby window, pausing to stare at him eerily. Archbishop stared back, unable to take his eyes off her. The sunlight made her complexion appear that much more pale, a skin that could never be warmed by the luminous rays. For a moment in her motionlessness she seemed like a compelling sculpture of classical beauty, and the whole scene struck him as downright surreal.

Then she stepped forward, and it became very real and very unsettling.

Archbishop resisted the rising urge to step away from her and looked up at her tentatively, from this proximity that much more aware of the fact that she was almost a full head taller.

He noticed other details, too.

When light caught in her eyes just so, there was an odd glint of lilac to the cold amber. The intricacy of deeply golden detail on her gilded pauldron. The transparency of her violet top. Her skin looked flawless to him, and he imagined it possessed consistency and temperature of white marble. He suppressed a sudden impulse to reach out and touch, focusing his thoughts on the matter at hand.

"What of Marcus?" she inquired, scrutinizing him incisively.

Archbishop sighed deeply, bringing his hands together in front of his white robes solemnly.

"Lord Marcus' interest in the affairs of the Church is troubling," he allowed a note of shivering disquiet to enter his voice. "He has already gained much sway with local Bishops, and each day his involvement with our internal policies grows. He is bringing Sarafan influence into the Church, their doctrines and politics threatening our independence."

The vampire made a lazy sound, mocking even.

"It is a good thing then that the well-being of Church is no longer your concern."

"Yes..." he said distraughtly, then quickly recovered from the sudden pang of guilt that flashed through him. "But nevertheless this is dangerous. It would be most unpleasant, should he find something...incriminating."

"Indeed," she purred as she moved even closer, her voice in equal parts soothing and sinister. "The politics of humans will soon be the last of your concerns."

Archbishop opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't really produce anything, his eyes darting around her provocative form restlessly, never meeting her eyes. She continued to regard him in that unnerving manner, her tone levelling.

"We are seeking to resolve this matter."

He offered a grimace of pale relief, sighing helplessly as he turned away and took a couple of steps toward a bookcase, before turning back again. It was really more subconscious, ingrained habit than any conscious effort on his part. As a high Church dignitary, the Archbishop of Meridian was absolutely masterful at inducing guilt and shame through facial expressions alone.

"No official appointments have been made, but he was present at the last consistory and I could read surprise only on several Bishops' faces. I think you understand what this implies?"

"More than you imagine."

He watched her bitterly for a long moment, then shifted the subject in hopes of averting his growing dread.

"At the last Grand Council sitting, Bishop Pascale was supported by Lady Allegra, surprising."

"Not so. She is...amiable to our cause."

Archbishop arched his brows in surprise.

"Ah. I did not know that."

Another contracted silence, each passing moment only building his unease. Why did she look at him so, with those dead eyes? What depraved hunger was glinting behind that deceivingly placid gaze?

She shifted lightly, frowning.

"You did not attend personally?"

Archbishop raised a dismissive hand, acutely aware of the dryness in his mouth.

"No, I rarely do, especially when minor matters are debated. One of my Bishops goes in my stead."

Her frown deepened, and it seemed like she was to say something.

There was a subdued knock on the door then, interrupting.

Archbishop's grey brows knit together in a mixture of annoyance and apprehension.

"Some administrative matter no doubt," he murmured wanly. "You should..."

He trailed off as he turned around to the vampire – she was gone. A chill ran down his spine as his eyes glanced about the spacious study, all windows were closed and there was no other exit than the single door. Another knock came, more persistent this time, that startled him from his thoughts.

"Yes," he called out, taking a moment to compose himself. "Enter."


End file.
